


there's a ghost upon the moor tonight

by ThisJoyAndI



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-21
Updated: 2013-08-21
Packaged: 2017-12-24 05:14:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/935795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisJoyAndI/pseuds/ThisJoyAndI
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(now it's in our house)<br/>Safe in Dorne, Myrcella learns of the death of Robb Stark at the Twins. 'The colours of the pattern seem all wrong in light of the news; cheery yellows and oranges to represent the Dornish sunrise, a sunrise Robb Stark and his lady mother will never again see.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	there's a ghost upon the moor tonight

She is informed of Robb Stark’s death when she is at her embroidery, her Dornish septa profusely complimenting her on her skilful use of a needle and thread. Arys Oakheart is at her side, as always, and she finds it humorous to see his large armoured frame amongst oodles of fabric and thread. The laughter dies in her throat however, when she hears Arianne’s shoes clicking into the bustling room, her usually jovial face solemn and her eyes downcast. Her soon to be good-sister tells her the news softly, and she finds herself gripping Arys’ hand instinctively as she waits in anticipation, fearing and both hoping that it will be Joffrey, that Joffrey has died, leaving sweet, gentle Tommen to take the throne and set the kingdom to rights.

The colours of the pattern seem all wrong in light of the news; cheery yellows and oranges to represent the Dornish sunrise, a sunrise Robb Stark and his lady mother will never again see.

All she can picture as she stares blankly down at the fabric, Arianne’s voice a dull murmur in the background, is the luxurious red thread her mother often had commissioned from merchants in Kings’ Landing. Would they be using that thread now, to immortalise the tragic scene at the Twins- the red thread weaved to represent the life lost? Oh, how truly terrible Walder Frey must be to have revoked the guest right bestowed upon the Starks and their party! She knows her family must have had a hand in this, be it her lady mother or stern grandfather, and she feels disgusted that they could devise such a plan. This was not honourable, this was deceit, and Robb Stark and his family have been nothing but honourable. He deserved to die on the battlefield, not brought down by hired sellswords and killed in front of his mother’s eyes. Would Joffrey force Sansa to recreate the scene, skilled at needlework as she was? It seemed in keeping with his malicious nature, and she wonders more than ever how her mother could bear any love for her cruel first-born. In comparison to Joffrey Robb Stark seemed like one of the knights of old, valiant and honourable until her grandfather deemed him too much of a threat and had him killed in a manner which meant the Freys would take all the blame. It is too much to bear, thinking about the actions of her grandfather, and the notion that he will never be blamed for the deaths makes her eyes burn with fury. How can she declare herself a Lannister, a proud lion of Casterly Rock not the Baratheon she so desires to be, when her grandfather has albeit ruined their name, just to keep Joffrey on a throne which would be better off without him.

No matter how luxurious the thread had been, it would never compare to the Tully red of Robb’s hair. She remembers staring at him when they were in Winterfell, her late father so booming and present, wondering how his hair could be so richly red and hers so pale – nothing at all like her mother’s golden sheen, rather a mass of wiry blonde curls that caused her much inconvenience. He must have thought her an idiotic child then; Theon Greyjoy and Jon Snow certainly had. She had not meant to stare, knew it was not polite nor in keeping with the manners of a princess, but the deep red of his hair combined with the bright blueness of his eyes had intrigued her so much she could bear to look away.

And now he is dead.

His laughter would never again ring in her ears as she watched the boys fight in the yard, their practice swords clanging together in a dull imitation of real warfare. How poignant it is to think that only a few months later Robb would engaged himself in real warfare, whilst her brother sprouted nonsense instead of taking to the battlefield himself, cowering behind the Hound. Men would never again raise arms for ‘The Young Wolf’ as they had so eagerly done before she was shipped away to Dorne for her safety, ever loyal Arys at her side. Robb Stark was just another casualty amongst the thousands that had suffered ever since her brother had taken the throne but she felt and mourned his loss more than she had for any other casualty, not including her Uncle Renly.

She had thought they would be married once, her mind easily assuming that because Joffrey and Sansa were to be married she and Robb would follow suit to consolidate the alliance between the Starks and the Baratheons. This marriage would only occur after she had flowered and her mother deemed it an acceptable time for her to begin her life as the next lady of Winterfell, ample time for Robb to grow into a man and assume his father’s duties. She often mouthed the world Myrcella Stark to see how they fit, pleasantly surprised at how the words sounded in her ears. She dreamed of a future in which she would bear Robb several babes with Tully red hair and appealing Lannister green eyes- babes named Rickard and all the old north names, daughters named after the fashion in Casterly Rock, perhaps Joanna for her late grandmother. The despair she had felt when she heard of his impromptu marriage to a Westerling girl had been something she could not name, the sorrow settling deep down in her heart until she forced herself to smile at Uncle Tyrion’s jokes and plays cards with Arys Oakheart.

She is to be married to Prince Trystane as soon as she flowers, and he is kind enough, willing to play cyvasse with her when Arys’ tires of it. His dark complexion will never evoke memories of Robb Stark, and for that she is extremely grateful. Perhaps she will grow to love him, or at least feel tenderness towards him, for she does not want the same life as her mother. 

Robb Stark and his red hair will always live on her memory, and perhaps Trystane will not mind if she names one of their sons a Northern name.

She stows the piece of embroidery in her trunk, unable to finish it.

**Author's Note:**

> Because Myrcella and Robb should have ended up together, obviously!  
> Also, haven't read up to Myrcella's time in Dorne so any and all mistakes should just be ignored.


End file.
